Detachment
by The Barkeep
Summary: Mark Cohen starts his first day at Scarsdale High as a loner, but when he meets Roger Davis, he realizes that his own life isn't quite as bad as he thought. PLEASE R&R! IT'S FINALLY BACK! August 26!
1. I

Detachment-   
By Ducky 

**_Author's Note:_** My first _Rent_ associated story... please be kind, leave some feedback. 

**_Disclaimer:_** The recognizable characters aren't mine- although I might wish that I could get my hands on Mark or Roger- they're the late, great Jonathan Larson's. I'm just borrowing for my own entertainment. Taking me to court would so not be in your best interest. I'm a teenager, I have nothing. The plot, etc. are all mine, so I don't want to see it under anyone else's nom deplume. Ciao!   


* * *

  
Mark stood, staring at himself in the mirror. His unruly blonde hair fell oblong across his forehead, a few strands resting below the wire frames of his glasses, and brushing his pale temples. The bland army green of his sweater was divided by a vulgar, mustard yellow stripe across his midsection, and his faded brown corduroys were beginning to fray at the hem, tickling the high tops of his black Converses. Shrugging his shoulders, he turned away from his reflection: the first day of school had come again. 

Snatching his book bag from the bowels of his _Star Wars _sheeted bed, Mark traipsed down the stairs. He could hear the coffee pot bubbling and the clink of forks on the breakfast plates. No doubt his father was gulping down the last of his orange juice, and Cindy was finishing off her toast. Mom would, of course, be hovering about the kitchen, wiping away crumbs that no one else could see. Sighing, he cleared the steps, and sauntered sullenly into the kitchen. 

"Mark! Oh, sweetie, you look... Mark? What happened to all the new clothes we bought you? Don't you think you could wear something a bit more- well, something a bit snappier? It is the first day of school, honey. Milk?" 

Mark shrugged again, and nodded. He slumped into the chair next to his sister. 

"Jeez, Mark, you look awful," Cindy greeted him, tossing her perfect auburn hair over her shoulder. 

"Thanks," Mark mumbled, taking the glass of milk his mother handed him. 

His sister sighed, "Do me a favor? Make sure that no one finds out we're related: my reputation would be ruined if anyone found out I had a little brother in the AV club, let alone a little brother that's a freshman." 

"Cynthia... be nice to your brother," Mrs. Cohen chirped, shoving a plate of toast beneath Mark's nose. Mark stared at it. "Mark, toast is for eating, dear." 

"Honestly, Miriam, I don't know why you even try. He'll never amount to anything," Mark's father joined in, sipping his orange juice. "He doesn't have any friends, and he spends all his time in his room, alone, playing with cameras and whatnot. Tsk." 

Mark sighed. He was used to his father talking about him like he wasn't there. 

"What a freak," Cindy muttered under her breath, taking a tiny bite of her own toast. 

"Cynthia!" 

Cindy smirked, "Sorry, Mark." 

Mark glared at her, picking at the charred piece of bread in front of him. He could feel the burning sensation of tears pricking at the back of his eyes. A typical day in the life of Mark Cohen: insults, mockery, and ignorance. He sat in silence, letting himself become numb to the world around him, preparing himself for the horror of the first day of school. 

A few minutes later, his mother hustled he and Cindy into their beat-up station wagon, and dropped them off at school. Cindy scampered in the direction of her friends, her perfectly pleated plaid skirt catching in the wind. Mrs. Cohen patted her son's cheek as he slid out of the car, and started into the school. 

"Bye, Honey! Have a good day!" she called, driving away. 

Mark looked back quickly, ascending the steps of the high school. 

Kids were squeezing past each other in the halls, shouting out greetings and creating a dull roar. Mark stood alone, feeling awkward as he watched the masses head to their first classes of the day. His eyes surveyed the scene, singling out different people: a girl carrying a crimson book, a senior with a navy bandana wrapped around his head, a boy in a Clash tee-shirt toting a guitar case. He wished he had his camera. Then he'd at least have something to hide behind. 

Suddenly, the shrill ringing of the bell (and a surge of movement) ushered Mark to his first class. 

The room was large, with two or three windows overlooking the elementary school playground, and several rows of single desks. It smelled like decaying books and chalk, and was deliciously cluttered with bookshelves and cabinets. As other kids began to filter into the room, Mark isolated himself, choosing a seat at the back of the classroom. No one sat next to him. 

A small woman with platinum blonde hair and thick, red lips stood in the front of the room, scrawling her name on the chalkboard. _Mrs. Fishburn. _She turned to the room of fourteen-year-olds, a toothy grin overtaking her face. 

"Good morning, boys and girls! I'm Mrs. Fishburn, and welcome to English. I'd like you all to take a seat- yes, that's good. This year, we'll be exploring the far realms of classic literature, such as _Romeo and Juliet, Animal Farm_, and-" 

Mrs. Fishburn was cut off by the creak of the door. Mark's head snapped up as one of his subjects of the morning came into the room: the boy in the Clash shirt. 

"Young man, you're late," the woman said, her tone changing from saccharine to perturbed. 

The boy nodded, smirking slightly, and running a steady hand through his sandy blonde hair. 

Mrs. Fishburn scowled, "Please take a seat, Mr. uh-" 

"Davis. Roger Davis," the boy said, staring coolly at the woman. 

Mark glanced nervously at the desk next to him. It was the only empty one in the whole room. 

"Well, Mr. Davis, please take a seat next to- uh, I'm sorry, dear, what's your name?" Mrs. Fishburn pointed to Mark. 

"Mark Cohen," he replied quietly. 

Mrs. Fishburn nodded, "Take a seat next to Mr. Cohen, and, in the future, remember that I do not encourage tardiness." 

Roger smiled, milling towards Mark, who sunk into his seat. 

**TO BE CONTINUED!**


	2. II

Roger grinned wryly at Mark before settling into his seat, propping his worn guitar case between the two desks. Mark could feel himself slipping towards the edge of his chair, the coarse material of his pants rigid against his skin. He closed his eyes, wishing the sun-bleached boy next to him would disappear. 

He didn't. 

The period crept by slowly, and every so often, Mark's glacial blue eyes would dart cautiously towards the desk next to his. Roger's smile remained, unscathed, as he absently drummed his fingers on his desk. Mark wondered what it was like to have that kind of stamina: to have the ability to retain contentment outside of a few seconds of facetious grinning. Roger's unwavering happiness was unsettling, and Mark knew that he was waiting for the right moment to start a conversation. As the class came an end, Mark immediately scooped up his things and bolted before the other boy had a chance to bat an eyelash. 

The rest of the morning was a monotonous rerun of English. Roger ended up in the four of Mark's classes preceding lunch, and that Cheshire Cat expression remained. Mark was unnerved, and by lunch, was happy to have an escape from the newcomer. 

Opting to skip out on the processed remains of yak the cafeteria would be serving, Mark decided to hide himself in the AV lab. He ventured down the hall, counting the checkerboard tiles of linoleum as he went. Intent on staying incognito and away from Roger, he kept his eyes focused on the ground, not noticing the throng of chiseled jocks standing downwind from the lab. Absently, he began to open the door, but was stalled, interrupted by the distinct baritone voice coming from behind. 

"Well, guys, looks like we have some fresh meat." 

Mark turned around warily, cautiously eyeing the group of lettermen. He knew what would happen next: it had been an unavoidable occurrence since his first day of school. The blood drained from his face, and his feet became heavy, weighted to the spot. 

A tall, dark-haired boy approached Mark, pinning his shoulders to the door. He sneered, his iridescent green eyes caught beneath the hall lights and his breath humid on the younger boy's face. He smiled, releasing one of Mark's shoulders and casually removing his glasses, throwing them to the ground and grinding the lenses beneath the sole of his shoe. Mark groaned. The older boy continued to smile as he drew his hand back again, contracting his fingers into a tight fist before plummeting it into Mark's abdomen. 

The younger boy doubled over in pain, panting. His aggressor, whose jacket was embossed with the name Bryan, surveyed the damage. Bryan's cronies simpered in anticipation as he readied his weapon again. Mark squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the next blow. Within seconds, he felt the warm, adhesive sensation of blood trickling from his freshly wounded nose. The blood meandered to his lips, sliding onto his jaw, giving Bryan a ready target. As Mark felt the fist connect with his jaw, he lost his bearing and went sprawling, knocking his head on the door. Bryan chuckled in satisfaction, and drove his sneaker-covered toe into Mark's side. The pain was sharp, and the younger boy writhed on the floor. The kicking continued, sharp jabs to the side or whatever other parts Bryan could plant a toe on. Mark could feel a few of the other boys joining in the fun. Defenseless, he lay still, biting his lip so as not to cry out in pain. The seniors laughed, watching the freshman's spasms of pain in delight. 

"Hey!" 

Mark's head swiveled. The voice was familiar, but angry. He could see a pair of navy sneakers hitting the linoleum, running towards the fray, and a guitar case banging against a denim clad leg. Inwardly, he felt himself groan. Roger. 

"Hey! Leave him alone!" Roger screamed, barreling towards the cluster of upperclassmen. He lunged at Bryan, dropping his guitar case and shrugging off his backpack. He crashed into the older boy, knocking him away from Mark. The two were wrestling on the floor while the group looked on, amused, when their skirmish was interrupted. 

"What _is_ going on out here?" 

Bryan and Roger both looked up, abandoning their brawl as the other boys, with the exception of an all but unconscious Mark, darted away. Mrs. Fishburn stood in front of them, her perfectly manicured hands resting on her hips. Clicking her tongue in dismay, she gestured for Roger and Bryan to separate. Quickly, they did so, glaring at each other. 

"Boys..." Mrs. Fishburn waited for an explanation. 

"He started it!" Roger and Bryan said in unison, pointing at one another. 

The woman shook her head, "Oh, I've never heard that one before. Mr., uh, Davis was it?" 

Roger nodded tentatively. 

"You and your friend here," she waved a hand to indicate Bryan, "will be spending some quality time in detention this afternoon. Mr. Cohen, on the other hand, will be spending some quality time in the nurse's office." 

Bryan groaned, shooting Roger a dirty look. Roger shrugged it off, and moved to help Mrs. Fishburn haul the comatose Mark to the nurse's office.   
  



	3. III

**_Author's Notes: _**Thanks for all who reviewed, and Joy, LolaB, y'all better update ASAP. In a shameless plug, I'm going to ask if you guys will check out my _Aida_ story, "Remnants of the Vague" and leave me some reviews telling me what you think. Danke!   


* * *

Mark groaned, the incessant glare of the overhead lights seeping into his peripheral vision. His head was throbbing, and he felt dried blood caked above his lip. Blinking away curds of sleep, he opened his eyes. 

"Hi." 

He saw the neck of the guitar first, a row of translucent strings standing at loose attention on a burgundy backdrop. His eyes traveled down to the base of the guitar, scanning a pair of calloused, rough hands. Sighing, momentarily forgetting his physical discomfort, Mark shifted his view, and met a pair of sympathetic blue eyes. He grimaced slightly, trying in vain to paste on a plastic smile. 

Mark nodded towards Roger. "Hi." 

Setting his guitar down, Roger leaned towards the vinyl-upholstered cot Mark lay on. "How you feeling, man?" 

_If you weren't around, I'd be ten times better_, Mark thought. However, his statement continued to imitate happiness. "Good, I guess." 

Roger nodded, "That's good." 

Mark shrugged, vacantly searching for a clock. He hoped that the day would be over soon so that he might escape Roger's concerned eyes. It was almost 3:25. School had been out for over an hour, and Roger's detention was over and done with. 

"Uh, they called your parents, but your mom hung up the phone before anyone even told her what happened. I guess she had 'errands to run' or something. They tried to get a hold of your dad, but I guess he was busy." 

Mark snorted. His mother was probably helping Cindy build up a monochromatic wardrobe and his father just didn't care. He pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to avoid making eye contact with the other boy. 

"Yeah, they're probably pretty busy," Mark mumbled. Roger nodded again, and for the first time that day, Mark knew he had nothing to say. 

"Hey, um, thanks for what you did today. I mean, I really don't get why you did it, but I appreciate it," Mark said reluctantly. 

Roger grinned, "It was no big deal. Those guys are jerks; I knew a lot just like 'em at my other school too. I'm not exactly great at controlling my temper." 

Mark nodded, looking around the room for his backpack. He needed to get out of there. 

"Look, uh, I don't know if you'd feel like it or whatever, but do you want to come over for a while? It kind of sounded like your folks were going to be tied up for a while, and Nurse Richards is off duty. My mom can help you get cleaned up." Roger shifted his weight uncomfortably. 

Mark stared at the other boy uncertainly. Slowly, he slid off of the cot, forgetting his backpack for the moment. His temples began to pound. He took a shaky step towards the mirror Nurse Richards kept in the office, his reflection being slightly unfocused because of his lack of eyewear. 

His hair was matted to his head with sweat, his indigo eyes bloodshot and squinty. A dried patch of crimson blood trailed from his swollen nose to his bruised jaw and onto the olive green of his sweater. Hesitantly, he lifted up his sweater and undershirt to reveal a black and blue stomach and contused sides. 

Mark sighed, dropping his shirts. He knew he was going to regret what he was about to do, but in his present condition, he didn't really care. Turning around, he nodded at Roger. 

"Okay." 

Roger grinned, producing Mark's backpack from underneath his chair, "All right, let's go." 

* 

Roger Davis lived in a community of duplexes called Birchwood Heights. The houses were nice; all painted the same shade of crème with the same cinnamon color trim. Many of the residents had groomed their yards to Beaver Cleaver perfection, with too-green lawns and perfectly kept flower gardens. As the two boys approached Roger's home, the front door opened and a little girl, no older than four, bounded towards Roger. 

"Rogie!" she squealed, blonde pigtails streaming behind her. Roger set his guitar case down, and opened his arms to the toddler. She smiled broadly, displaying her missing front teeth as she wrapped her chubby arms around him. 

Roger hugged the little girl, kissing the top of her head. "Hey, kiddo." 

"Rogie, you're… you're late," the little girl said, crossing her arms over her chest and trying to glare at him. "Mommy has-a work." 

"I know, Annie, I know." Roger paused, brushing a strand of flaxen hair from the girl's freckled forehead. He turned her towards Mark. "Annie, this is my friend Mark." 

Annie shied towards Roger, blushing furiously. "Hi-i." 

Mark grinned, in spite of himself. 

"Mark, this is Annie, my baby sister." 

"Hi, Annie." 

Roger inclined his head towards his guitar case as he scooped Annie into his arms. Mark nodded, and picked up the instrument, following Roger into the house. 

"Mom! Mom, I'm home!" Roger called, setting his sister down in the entryway. Mark waved at her, and she squealed, running away. _What am I doing? _he wondered. 

"She likes you," Roger explained, taking his guitar from Mark and shutting it in a closet. "Mom!" 

Roger glanced nervously at the top of the stairs. Mark stood quietly against the front door, watching tension creep into Roger's features. Above, a door creaked open, and a woman garbed in a thigh-length avocado dress and half an apron appeared. She smiled absently at Roger as she guided her earrings to their proper place. Taking a quick glance towards the room from which she had come, she closed the door, and, walking down the stairs, coaxed her dark brown hair into an erect ponytail. 

"Roger, honey, please keep your voice down. Matthew had a bad night at work, and I _just_ got him to sleep." 

Mark examined the woman in front of him. She was, obviously, Roger's mother, yet she looked fragile and young. Ever observant, Mark concentrated on her every aspect. Waif-like and tall, her eyes were like her son's; an intense blend of blue and amber, displaying unwavering fervor. Her hair was dark and fine. Mark altered his gaze, and noticed a small blemish below her eye. She had done her best to conceal it with make-up, but a dull crescent of violet was still visible. Mark looked towards Roger, whose expression was taut and vexed. 

"Oh," Roger replied, his voice tight. 

She shook her head, squeezing her son's shoulder before turning towards Mark, "Who's your friend?" 

Roger's expression softened slightly. "This is Mark. He's, uh, in a lot of my classes at school." 

"Hello, Mark," she greeted him cheerily, extending her hand. "I'm Mrs. O'Neil." 

Mark shook Mrs. O'Neil's hand, silently wondering why she wasn't Mrs. Davis. Mrs. O'Neil studied his face, taking in his battle scars from earlier in the day. 

"My goodness, dear. I hope you don't mind my saying so, but you look like death warmed over. Roger, why don't you help him get cleaned up? There are some fresh towels in the linen closet, and I'm sure he could borrow some of your clothes." 

Roger nodded. 

"All right. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I've got to run. Hector won't be too happy if I'm late again. There's some mac n' cheese in the pantry, and some hotdogs in the fridge. Make sure that Annie and Adam get some dinner, would you? Oh, and save some for your step-father. He'll probably want some when he wakes up." 

Mark watched Roger grimace, and then nod. 

Mrs. O'Neil kissed her son's cheek. "Thanks, Roger. I love you." 

"Love you too, Mom," Roger replied. 

"Nice to have met you, Mark," she acknowledged, grabbing a purse and jacket from a nearby coat rack, before heading for the door. "I'll be back around one. Bye!" 

"Bye," Roger mumbled. The door slammed shut, and Roger's expression relaxed. 

"She's nice," Mark remarked. 

The other boy nodded, "Yeah. Um, let's go upstairs." 

Roger started up the steps, hesitating as he passed the room from which his mother had come. Mark followed, trying not to become preoccupied with the information Roger wasn't volunteering. The two ventured down the short hallway, and Roger pushed open the door to his bedroom. 

The room was surprisingly clean. A precisely made bunk bed stood against one of the walls, a miniature version of Roger lounging on the bottom bunk. There were shelves crammed with a diverse collection of books, from _Mike Mulligan and the Steam Shovel_ to _A Clockwork Orange_. A dresser stood at attention near the window, its top littered with trophies and a boom box. Shoved neatly into a corner was a small desk, stacked with sheet music and notebooks. Posters of John Lennon, REM, Spider Man, and the New York skyline were clinging to the walls. 

Roger gestured to a small outcropping beneath the window, and Mark reluctantly sat down. 

Catching the attention of his mini-self, Roger pointed towards Mark. "Adam, this is Mark. He's a friend from school. Mark, this is my little brother, Adam." 

Mark and Adam nodded at each other, and the younger boy returned to the comic book he was reading, undaunted by Mark's appearance. 

"Let me get you some clothes and towels, and you can take a shower and stuff." Roger began shuffling through his dresser, producing a pair of baggy and torn jeans and a faded Yankees jersey. He tossed them at Mark, and left the room, returning with a towel and washcloth. "Bathroom's right across the hall." 

Mark shrugged, taking the stuff from Roger's hands and going across the hall. 

The shower was relatively painless, and it gave him an opportunity to get rid of sweat and the dry blood that was clinging to his face. He emerged almost a half-hour later, more comfortable and glad to be in clean clothes. By that time, it was almost five o'clock. It was no great surprise that his parents hadn't called out the National Guard in hopes of finding him. Constantly detaching himself from feeling, he normally wouldn't have minded. However, Mark felt himself growing comfortable around Roger, and he wasn't sure he liked it.   
  



	4. IV

**_Author's Note:_** Sorry that this chapter is short, and that it took so long for me to update. I've been really busy, but now I have some free time again. For the record, this chapter is basically the beginning of my interpretation of why Roger is the way he is. There's some mild language, and this and following chapters involve some heavy issues. Just a warning. Thanks...   


* * *

Mark sauntered into Roger's kitchen, silently reprimanding himself for still being in the other boy's house. Roger stood over the stove, stirring a pot of macaroni and cheese. His features had tensed again, and his knuckles had paled from the tight grip he had on the wooden spoon in his hand. Mark nodded awkwardly at him, and Roger grinned nervously. 

"Annie thinks you should stay for dinner," Roger said softly, tentatively tapping the spoon on the side of the pot. 

Mark nodded, "Okay." 

"It's not much," Roger continued, lifting the macaroni off the burner and carrying it over to a carefully set table where Annie and Adam were already sitting. "Mac n' cheese is pretty much all we have." 

As Mark sat down, Roger shuffled around the table, plopping a soggy heap of yellow noodles onto each of the plates. Suddenly, a board creaked overhead, and Roger almost dropped the pot. He quickly set it on the table, closing his eyes. Mark stared at him, curious. A groan carried down the stairs, and a door squealed open, a prequel to the pounding of heavy footsteps on the steps. Running a hand through his unkempt blonde hair, a well-built and handsome man lumbered into the kitchen. Roger's arms slid around his brother and sister as the man grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. 

"Damnit, Roger! Would you look at this fucking mess?" the man waved his arm, indicating some stray drops of milk, an empty margarine wrapper, and dustings of cheese powder. "God, it's bad enough living in this dump without having your crap all over the place. And, Jesus! You make enough goddamned noise to wake the dead." 

"I'm sorry, Matthew," Roger said quietly, tightening his grip on Annie and Adam. Mark felt a pang of anxiety at the tone of the other boy's voice. Roger sounded almost scared, an emotion Mark had figured Roger was exempt from. 

"You damn well better be," Matthew said, taking a swig of his beer. He glanced over at the table, his gaze resting on Mark. "Who's that?" 

"Uh... this is, um, Mark," Roger managed. "He's staying for dinner." 

Matthew snorted, "No... no, he's not. You've got shit to do, kid." 

"Matthew, I-" Roger started, his voice trembling. 

"Shut up!" Matthew spat. "I said 'you've got shit to do', and you're going to do it. Mart or whatever his name is needs to leave." 

Roger squeezed his eyes shut again, dropping his head. "Okay, yeah." 

Matthew knocked back another sip. "That's what I thought." 

"Mark, I think you'd better leave," Roger said through gritted teeth. Mark nodded, watching Matthew flex his hand. 

"Thanks for everything, Roger. Um, I'll get your stuff back to you tomor-" 

"Don't worry about it," Roger interrupted. 

Mark shrugged, standing up. Roger ushered him over to the front door, handing him his backpack. 

"I'll see you at school, I guess," Roger said, pushing Mark out the door. "Bye." 

The door closed quickly, and Mark stood for a moment, disoriented. What was going on? He sat on the stoop, not ready to walk home just yet. He heard something clatter to the floor, breaking. Screams and rushed sobs erupted behind the door, and Mark felt himself become nauseous. He jumped up from the stoop and ran from Roger's house.   
  



	5. V

**_Author's Notes:_** Thanks for all the feedback! I really appreciate it... props to all of those who figured out that Matthew was Roger's stepfather, hence his mother's different last name. Joy, for the record, I'll get cracking on our eulogy as soon as I'm done with this chapter, honest. I just seem to have the flow going on tonight. Maybe it's my mood music. ((Sighs as Adam Pascal starts to sing.)) Teehee, my AIM list moos when someone gets on or off. Homage to Maureen, no? Anyhow, keep the feedback coming. Again, same precautionary warning: heavy content. Thanks!   


* * *

  
The night passed quickly. Mark's parents took little notice that he came in four hours late, wearing clothes that were obviously too big for him. They barely acknowledged his haggard appearance, save for a quick 'you look gross' from his sister. He had slipped up the stairs, still contemplating what had happened at Roger's. 

What _had_ happened at Roger's? 

The next morning, Mark stood, leaning against his locker, waiting for Roger. He had shed the Yankees jersey and ripped jeans into a grocery bag, and donned a loose fitting white tee-shirt and another pair of corduroy pants. Roger, however, had lost the look of jaded rocker. He walked into the building sans his guitar case, and without so much as a smirk. His face was blank, and, Mark noticed, that in spite of the heat of late summer, he was wearing a dark, long-sleeved shirt. 

"Hi," Mark greeted the other boy cautiously. 

Roger attempted a grin, but failed miserably. His eyes quickly shifted to his feet. 

Mark sighed. "Um, here's your stuff." 

"Thanks," Roger acknowledged. His voice was barely audible. "I'm sorry dinner turned out so shitty." 

"Don't worry about it," Mark replied. 

Roger nodded slightly, turning to busy himself with his locker. Mark stared at him, his eyes studying the boy in front of him as they had Mrs. O'Neil the day before. Roger still seemed scared; every movement was hesitant, and he seemed distracted and helpless. His engaging blue eyes darted around nervously, reminiscent of a deer caught in the headlights. 

"Look, Roger, what hap-" 

Roger's head snapped up, almost in alarm. "It was nothing, Mark. Just- just forget it, okay?" 

Mark shook his head. "I- well, um, I may not know you very well, but-" 

"That's right, you don't know me very well. You _don't_ know me! Just leave it alone, Mark. All right?" 

Mark closed his eyes, dropping his head. Roger started rummaging through his locker, and Mark gave up and did the same. He could hear Roger muttering to himself and taking in quick gasps of air every so often. Mark fished his books out of the metal space, and waited silently for Roger. As the other boy reached for one of his books, the sleeve of his shirt slid down, revealing a throng of deep purple bruises, none of which had been there the previous day. Mark gaped at him. 

"Oh my God, Roger... what _is_ that?" Mark managed. _His_ battle scars from the day before weren't even that bad. 

Roger cocked his head at Mark, oblivious. "What's what?" 

Mark pointed at Roger's contusion dappled forearm. "_That_." 

Roger's eyes widened, and he dropped the text book he had been reaching for. He quickly pulled his sleeve back into place, cradling his arm. 

"I told you to leave it alone. I'm fine, okay? I just- uh, I-I just tripped on the stairs, that's all." Roger whispered. He looked towards Mark, his eyes pleading and vulnerable. 

Mark nodded hesitantly. Roger held his arm to his chest, almost trying to conceal it from Mark's view. Roger was definitely _not_ okay. 

"Can we just go to class?" Roger asked, letting go of his arm and picking up his fallen book. 

Mark nodded again, and the two started towards class. 

Mrs. Fishburn hadn't lost any of her enthusiasm overnight. She ushered her students to their seats, and quickly doled out a set of thick paperback books. _To Kill a Mockingbird_. The woman launched into a lengthy explanation of the book almost immediately, losing the interest of all of her pupils, more especially Mark and Roger, right off the bat. By the end of her lecture, she seemed pleased with herself. Tacking on a sickening grin, she clapped her hands together. 

"Today, you receive your first assignment." 

A collective groan surfaced. Mrs. Fishburn shook her head. 

"I would like you each to select a partner. You and your partner will read the novel together, and then decide what it's target audience is. Afterwards, you will come up with an effective way to market the book, and present it to the class." 

Roger and Mark glanced at each other, deciding that they would partner, and that was that. The rest of the class was creating a dull roar around them, but neither felt like speaking just yet. 

The day dragged on, almost uneventfully. Unlike the day before, Roger didn't do much talking. Mark watched him as he carefully cradled his arm, inspecting the bruises as if looking at them would make them disappear. His hackles were up, and he seemed intimidated by everything. 

By the end of the day, Mark felt ready to scream. 

"I guess I'll see you tomorrow?" Mark asked quietly. 

Roger nodded, "I guess so." 

"Listen, I think maybe we should work at my house tomorrow, in stead of yours. Um, it might be-" 

Roger shook his head. "Drop it already, would you? Somebody _needs_ to be there, or he'll- look, never mind. I've got to go." 

Mark stared after Roger as he ran from the school. 


	6. VI

**_Author's Note: _**All right, folks. This chapter turns the point of view from Mark to Roger, so for the next five chapters (if it lasts that long), everything will be from Roger's third person limited omniscient point of view. Enjoy. I'll try to make the next chapter longer, I promise. Also, could I please get some reviews on "Cellophane Sun?" It's my first try at an actual first person fic, and Joy and I are dying for feedback. Pretty please with a Mark scarf on top? 

**_Disclaimer:_** Due to recent events, I'd just like to remind a certain person that while the characters are the creations of the late, great Jonathan Larson, the plot and everything remaining in this story are _mine_. Thanks!   


* * *

Roger could feel Mark's eyes on him as he jogged away from the school. Mark's intentions were good, he knew, but his scrawny new friend couldn't change anything. He was glad that Mark hadn't seen the condition of his stomach or the smattering of cuts and welts on his back and legs. It would have only made things worse. 

School was his solace, the only time when he wasn't in constant pain or protecting anyone. He could let go and pretend that he was a normal kid, just like everyone else. Mark had changed that. Even with what had happened the night before looming over his head, Roger had already made a habit of watching out for the other boy, and he hated himself for it. He couldn't afford to put himself on the line for Mark; he needed to be there for Annie and Adam, for Mom. 

"You're late again, Roger," was his mother's greeting as he walked in the door, throwing his jacket on the floor. 

Roger winced, noticing her expression. She wasn't in a good mood. 

"I'm sorry, Mom." 

Mrs. O'Neil shook her head, "I know, Roger. You're always sorry." 

"I-" 

"I know it's hard for you, sweetie, but if I lose this job, we're in trouble. Matthew isn't making enough to support us, and-" 

Roger closed his eyes as his mother trailed off. _Matthew isn't making enough to support us, and if **you're **not making enough to support **him**, **we'll** be out on the street. Again._

"Make sure Adam does his homework, and that Annie drinks her milk," Mrs. O'Neil finished. She threaded her fingers through Roger's sandy blonde hair, and leaned down to kiss his forehead. 

"Okay, Mom." 

"I love you, Roger. Just remember that," she replied, straightening her apron. "How do I look?" 

Roger sighed, inadvertently letting a lazy grin tug at the corners of his lips. "You look beautiful, Mom." 

"Thanks, honey. I'll be home late again," she paused a moment, her blue eyes fixated on her son. "Roger?" 

Roger looked at the floor. "Yeah?" 

"Roger, please be careful." 

Roger nodded, "I will." 

"Love you." 

"I love you too," Roger managed as his mother walked out the door. As he traipsed up the stairs, he cursed silently. He hated the way that his mother danced around the way that Matthew behaved. He couldn't understand why she accepted, why she _let_ him hurt her, why she let him hurt _him_. Adam and Annie were all right, he knew, as long as he stepped in between them and Matthew's anger. 

He walked into his room, conscious of the fact that Matthew was still asleep, and greeted his younger brother quietly. Adam was stretched out on the floor, paging through one of Roger's old issues of _Rolling Stone_, bobbing his head in time with his Walkman. Roger grinned slightly. Adam was so much like him, it was scary. Slowly unzipping his backpack, Roger emptied out his homework. He knew he had to get it done before Matthew woke up, or there would be no getting it done at all. Tossing the books on his already crowded desk, Roger eyed a photo on the edge of the table carefully. As of late, he had really been missing his father. 

Jack Davis was perfect in his son's eyes. The blonde, brown eyed musician was carefree and gentle, always putting his family first, no matter how great the gig or how far it was. He and Roger had always been close, sharing a common bond over the guitar and the same quiet, inconspicuous intelligence. When Roger was eleven, his father developed testicular cancer. Just a few days after Annie's first birthday, Jack passed away, leaving his wife with little money and three kids. Seven months later, she met Matthew O'Neil in the diner in which she worked. He was charming and seemingly sweet, and was more than happy to help the single mother get back on her feet. Exactly a year after his father died, Roger's mother married Matthew. Within a few months, Matthew's booze hound habits surfaced and he started to beat his new wife and sexually abuse his two-year-old step-daughter. That's when Roger stepped in, taking the fall for his baby sister. He had never looked back. 

Snapping away from his memories, Roger rubbed his black-and-blue arm, unaware of the frightened look it prompted on his little brother's face. Cracking open his history book, Roger tuned out reality and concentrated on the days of old. 


	7. VII

**_Author's Note:_** All right, this chapter is a little graphic, for situations made obvious by the previous chapters. Also, there's some PG-13 language in here, as in the f--- word. For any who are uncomfortable with strong language and violent situations, please refrain from reading. This will probably be as bad as it gets. Please let me know how I did with this chapter. It means a lot. I'm nervous.   


* * *

Roger stared at the clock-radio, the vivid, red letters bearing hard into his sleep-laden eyes. 12:47 PM. He didn't know why he was awake; the night had been uneventful. He hadn't had to throw himself in front of Matthew's fists, and was hoping to keep it that way. The welts and bruises from the night before were beginning to take their toll on his body, and he wasn't sure if he could take much more. 

He wrestled with guilt at his thoughts. He was sacrificing himself for something important. It wasn't like he was flying blindly around the playground, picking out fights with every punk he saw. He was protecting his family from 'unnecessary evils', as his father would have said. Roger had seen too many unnecessary evils for comfort, and he was beginning to wear thin. Too many more nights like the night before, and he wouldn't be around to protect Annie and Adam, to protect Mom. 

"ROGIE!" 

Roger's thoughts flew out of his mind, as Annie's scream shocked him back to reality. Below him, he felt Adam wince, and he scrambled off of his bunk and out into the hall. 

"Shut up," Matthew was hissing. Roger struggled to see around the older man's hunched shoulders, but he could see Annie's chubby little legs. They were shaking. 

"ROGIE!" she screamed again. 

Roger heard Matthew's zipper drop, and he snapped. He forgot about his swollen legs and back, the bruises on his arm and dashed at Matthew, the same way he had run at Bryan the day before. His body slammed into Matthew's, causing his step-father to collapse onto the floor. Roger crawled off of him, and inspected his sister. She was in tears, and had been stripped of her pajamas, but Matthew hadn't had the chance to do anything to her. 

"Annie, sweetie, are you all right?" Roger whispered, kissing her forehead. 

Annie wrapped her arms around Roger's neck, "Rogie, I-I scared. Matt-ew... he-he..." 

The sensation of his sister's tears on his shoulder was a familiar one. Roger loosened his grip. "It's all right, honey. It's okay. You're okay." 

Annie let a little sob escape, "Rogie, I scared." 

He let go of her for a moment, and handed her the purple disaster, complete with feet, that was her pajamas, "Sweetie, please go back to bed. I'll be in a few minutes to check on you. I'll bring Mommy too, okay?" 

"O-Okay," Annie nodded slowly, scampering back into her room. 

Roger looked towards her door, and then back at Matthew, who was laying in a sweat-soaked heap on the floor. He wouldn't try to do it again would he? 

_Not tonight_, Roger prayed. 

But staring at the man across from him, Roger knew that it was only the calm before the storm. Matthew's head slowly rose up, and Roger saw the familiar fire in his eyes. 

"You little fuck," Matthew growled. He began to push himself to a sitting position. 

Roger shook his head, and tried to run for his room, "No...no... no..." 

Matthew caught his ankle, and the boy fell, catching the back of his head on the doorjamb, and burning his bruised arm on the carpet. He screamed out in pain as his step-father shoved him onto his back. Roger could feel Matthew's weight on his abdomen as the older man drew back his hand and sent it roughly across his step-son's cheek. 

"No...no! I'm sorry!" Roger managed, his voice cracking. He felt a few stray tears slip down his cheek, and more, searing his eyes. 

"You senseless little fuck," Matthew muttered, slapping Roger's temple forcefully. "What did I tell you? Huh?" 

Roger writhed beneath the older man, "N-no! You- Matthew, please... no!" 

Matthew threw his knuckles below Roger's eye, "What did I tell you?" 

"Please!" 

"Damnit, boy, I want an answer," Matthew continued. Roger heard the click on metal on metal, then the smooth zip of leather against denim. 

The boy felt himself trembling as his step-father stood up, kicking his ribs. 

Roger knew what would happen next. Gasping in pain, he felt himself being maneuvered onto his already-contused stomach. He felt Matthew rip his pajama bottoms off, and then, he heard the clicking again. 

"You fucking say something, now!" Matthew hollered, snapping the belt against Roger's exposed legs. 

Roger felt his legs spasm, and tensed. 

"Please!" he begged. 

Matthew brought the belt down, hard, on Roger's bottom. 

"No!" Roger wailed. 

"I told you to leave it alone, didn't I?" Matthew hissed, slapping the leather against his step-son's body. "I told you to leave it alone, god damnit, and you didn't listen." 

Matthew flicked the buckle onto Roger's back, tearing his shirt. He hit him again, and again, over and over. Moments later, Roger heard the belt hit the floor beside him. This was when it was supposed to end, but, somehow, he knew that tonight was different. He felt Matthew lift him off the floor. 

_"_Please...no... don't hurt me," Roger struggled. His voice was barely existent. 

"This'll fucking teach you a lesson, you little shit," Matthew whispered, crazed, in Roger's ear. He threw the boy against the wall, with amazing force. Roger collapsed, barely breathing. His step-father began to kick his ribs, presenting an almost crushing weight. The boy gasped for air. Matthew smiled, kneeling next to his step-son, and dug his elbows into Roger's weakening rib cage. He released his chest, bringing his attention to Roger's face. His hand swept rabidly across Roger's features. He brought his hand down upon the boy's ears, and took his head gingerly in his hands, forcing it, hard, against the corner of the doorjamb and brought it forward, only to slam it backward again. Matthew seemed almost satisfied. He let Roger's head drop roughly against the doorjamb, and with one more sharp blow to the face, it was over. 

Roger lay on the floor, unconscious.   



	8. VIII

**_Author's Note:_** Okay, first of all, thank you all so much for the positive feedback on chapter seven! It means a lot to me that you all enjoyed it, for lack of a better word. It was incredibly nerve-wracking to write, and I appreciate that you appreciated it. Please, keep it coming! Secondly, the rest of the story is considerably more subdued to the previous chapter, but still pretty angst-laden. And for the record, Roger's middle name is Jonathan not because of the late, great man we know and love, but because of his father. Jack is a nickname for Jonathan. Hey, Mark reappears in the next chapter! YAY!   


* * *

"Is he going to be all right?" 

The sounds were muffled, almost as if they were coming from within a tin can, but he knew his mother was there. He felt her cool, well-manicured hand in his own, and it was trembling. It was clammy, and her fingers were softly, but almost desperately caressing his knuckles. Roger heard a monotonous and precise reply, and then the squeak of a door opening and slamming shut. 

"M-Mom?" 

His voice was hoarse, barely audible. He felt his mother tense, and she let go of his hand, weaving her fingers through his hair. 

"Roger, baby?" she whispered, prompting her son to open his eyes. "Honey, are you awake?" 

Roger tried to nod, but a searing pain tore through his trunk and head. He winced. 

"Don't try to move, sweetie," Mrs. O'Neil said, letting the pad of her finger slide along Roger's cheek. 

Roger bit his lip, obeying his mother and letting his eyes adjust to the stark light of his surroundings. Everything was a sterile, dull egg-shell white, and the room was sparsely furnished. He felt the all too familiar sensation of tears damming at the back of his eyes. He was in the hospital; he couldn't protect them. 

"Mom," he began. "Mom, how bad is it?" 

His mother looked away, staring at the wall. 

"Mom?" 

"I've called school, honey. I told them that you were in the hospital, and they said that they would send one of your classmates by so that you don't fall behind. Annie and Adam are staying with your Grandpa Marty for right now, until we can figure out something else." 

Roger stared at her. "Mom?" 

"Hector said that I could have the next few days or so off, just until you get used to the hospital." 

"Mom?" 

Mrs. O'Neil looked down at Roger. "What?" 

"You didn't say anything, did you?" 

"Roger," she whispered, leaning closer to him. "You know that I can't do that. Honey, they could put him in jail for this and- well, I don't want to think about what he would do to us when he got out. It might be worse than this; next time, he might go back for Annie, or Adam." 

Roger gaped at her. "He might go back for me. Mom, you can't let him keep doing this to us. You can't let him-" 

"Roger, please stop. I know you don't understand, and I don't think that even _I_ understand, but I love Matthew. He'll- he _can_ change, and I know he will." 

"He won't." 

"Roger Jonathan..." 

"He won't, Mom," Roger forced the words out with as much vehemence as he could manage. "He'll come back, and it will happen all over again." 

His mother sighed, wiping away a stray tear from his cheek with her finger tip. 

"He'll come back, and..." he trailed off, pausing for a moment. "And maybe I won't be so lucky the next time." 

"Shut up," his mother hissed, a few tears sliding down her cheeks. "Just stop it!" 

"No," Roger persisted. His voice was still a faltering whisper, his breathing irregular gasps. "Mom, you have to stop it. You can't just move on." 

She shook her head, "I can and I will. He loves me Roger, and I love him. We'll work through this, and it will be fine. You'll see." 

"No!" Roger replied. "Mom... _Dad_ loved you. He would've never let this happen to us. I don't understand-" 

"You're right, Roger, you don't understand." 

"Mom?" Roger felt himself give into his tears, and the pain in his chest worsened. 

Mrs. O'Neil stood up, caressing her son's cheek slightly. "I'll be back tomorrow." 

"No. Please don't go. Not like this," Roger pleaded. 

"Honey, you need your rest," she said coolly. "Please, get some sleep. You've got a long way to go yet." 

Roger's chest heaved, and he blanched in pain. "Please..." 

"Bye, sweetie. I'll send the nurse up to check on you." 

Mrs. O'Neil turned away from her son, and left him alone in the hospital room. 

"Mom?" Roger struggled on the word. He didn't understand how she could just leave him, and go back to that house, where _he_ would be waiting. He just couldn't understand. 

His thoughts distracted him from the pain for a few minutes, until a pleasant-looking black nurse walked into the room. 

She smiled at him, "Oh, now, puss, quit your crying. You might be in pretty bad shape, but Dr. Katz and I will have as good as new in no time at all. My name is Muriel, by the way, and I'll be your hostess while you're residing in this fabulous piece of lodging." 

Roger tried to reply, but all that came out was a fitful sob. 

"Sweetie, you need some rest. I'm going to give you a little something to help you sleep, all right?" 

Roger tried to protest, but Muriel began rummaging around on a small table at his bedside. She readied a syringe, and lay it at the edge of the table while she found a cotton ball. Dipping the cotton ball into some sort of clear fluid, she rubbed the soft sphere on his bruised bicep. 

"Now, this might hurt a little bit, but don't worry. It will put you out like a light, honey." 

She flicked the edge of the needle, and brought it to Roger's arm. He flinched as she let the cool tip pierce his skin. 

Muriel grinned, "Pleasant dreams, Mr. Davis. I'll be back in a few hours to check on you." 

Muriel left the room, flicking off the fluorescent lights as she went. 

As the rest of the world faded into an exhaustive haze, Roger was left alone with his thoughts. He didn't understand how she could abandon the welfare of her children, all for a selfish fit of love with a monster. He felt the tears sliding off his chin, penetrating the paper-like material of his hospital gown, their salt stinging various wounds left by the man his mother loved. 


	9. IX

**_Author's Note:_** I'm sorry I haven't updated recently. It's been very hectic, what with school starting again and everything. I've also been dealing with oh-so-wonderful writer's block on four or so fics, so everything has been kind of messed up. Marky returns in this chapter. I think this might be nearing it's end soon... Thank you for all the wonderful feedback. This chapter might be a little boring because I'm just trying to get the ball rolling again, but please review.   


* * *

"Mr. Davis?" 

Roger stirred, struggling to open his eyes. Muriel stood at the end of his bed, her hulking dark arm draped across a slim pair of shoulders. She smiled at him as his eyes fluttered open. 

"You have a visitor. And, honey, it looks like you've got some work to do. _To Kill a Mockingbird_? Poor kid." 

Roger smiled weakly, "Thanks." 

"Anytime, sweetie. Now, I'll let you get to getting." 

Muriel turned to leave, and Roger fixed his gaze at the small boy at the edge of his bed. 

"Hi." 

Mark stared at his feet, "They said that you were in an accident. That's what they told me when they asked me to come here." 

_Sure I had an accident_, Roger thought. _A head-on collision with my step-father's fist counts, right?_

"Roger, it wasn't an accident." 

"Mark-" 

"What happened the other day... it happens a lot, doesn't it?" Mark asked quietly. 

Roger glanced at his sheets. "Yeah." 

Mark nodded. "It happened last night." 

"Yeah." 

"Oh," Mark replied. He shifted his weight and sighed. "Um, we didn't do much in school today. There's a math worksheet in here, and they sent over your history book. Mrs. Fishburn said that we should start our pro-" 

Roger interrupted him. "I don't really care, Mark." 

"Um," Mark began, but Roger shook his head. 

"Man, would you just forget it? I mean, you could look at me. You haven't since you walked in, and I know you want to. Mark, pretending that it didn't happen isn't going to make it go away. My mom is trying that- and, look, I need someone on my side." 

Mark fought the urge to stare at the other boy, puzzled. "But you told me-" 

"Forget what I told you," Roger interjected quietly. He looked up from his sheets. "How bad is it?" 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, how bad is it?" Roger persisted impatiently. 

Mark sighed. His eyes traveled from the floor to Roger's face, studying every mite of the other boy's features the way he had Roger's mother a few days before. They paused for a few moments, and Roger watched Mark grimace slightly. 

"Mark?" 

"I-I-" Mark stammered. His eyes were locked awkwardly on Roger's face, and couldn't seem to tear themselves away.   


Roger sighed. "Please, Mark?"   


Mark shook his head. "Roger, I can-"   


"Tell me..." Roger whispered.   


"What did he do to you, Roger?" Mark asked, avoiding assessing the situation.   


Roger tensed, exasperated. "What does it look like he did to me?!"   


"Fine." Mark gave up. He tore his gaze from Roger's altered face. "It's really bad."   


"That's it?" Roger asked gently. He could see that Mark was uncomfortable. After all, they had only met a few days before, and already Mark had been put in the middle of this mess.   


"That's it," Mark replied softly. "Look, Roger, I think I'd better go. I think I saw Annie and your mom in the waiting room on the way up. They'll probably want to see you."   


Roger nodded, "I understand. Um, how much of that should I read?"   


Mark glanced at the copy of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ on Roger's night stand. "Probably the first two chapters, I guess. I'll be back tomorrow."   


Mark turned to leave, waving slightly at his new found friend.   


"Mark?"   


"Yeah?"   


Roger sighed. "I'm sorry... I know I shouldn't have-"  


"It's fine," Mark interrupted. "See you later."   


The door closed, and Roger nodded. "Yeah, see you."   


Almost immediately, the door opened again. Over the edge of his bed, Roger could see a pair of blonde braids bouncing towards him. His mother walked in, holding Adam's hand, watching as Annie bounded towards her brother.   


"Rogie?" Annie whispered, peeking over the end of the bed.   


Roger smiled at his little sister, pushing Mark's visit into the back of his mind. "Hey, kiddo."   


Annie crept a little closer. "Rogie, you- you okay?"   


"I'm all right, Annie. C'mere, sweetie."   


Annie smiled, climbing up onto Roger's bed. "Mommy said you had a accident."   


Roger shook his head slightly, glaring at his mother. Mrs. O'Neil turned away.   


"Don't be stupid, Annie. He didn't have an accident, Matth-" Adam attempted, but Roger interrupted him.   


"Yeah, Ann, I had an accident."   


Annie snuggled carefully next to her brother. The feel of her little body next to his own was comforting for Roger. He pulled gently on one of her braids.   


She looked up at him with wide, blue eyes. "You have a owie, Rogie."   


"Yeah," Adam whispered, looking his brother up and down.   


Roger nodded, trying to ignore the awed, frightened look in his little sister's eyes.   


"Can- can I kiss it and make it better?" the toddler asked earnestly.   


Roger smiled. "I guess."   


Annie wiggled upward, careful not to bump her brother. She pursed her little lips, pressing them softly along Roger's face- his eyes, jaw line, nose, cheeks, ears- guiding herself down his abraisioned neck and arms. They were soft, almost non-existent kisses, and didn't begin to cover the extent of his injuries, but Roger was thankful for them. Annie leaned back to inspect Roger's injuries, as if her butterfly kisses had made them disappear. Her little forehead wrinkled in confusion.   
  
"You not all better?"   


"Not yet, kiddo," Roger replied. He hugged her gently, even though it hurt a bit. He was glad that Annie was out of harm's way, even if he had had to sacrifice himself for it.   


"Annie, be careful, sweetheart," Roger's mother chided. "We don't need to make things worse, do we?"   


"Leave her alone, Mom," Roger responded coldly.  


Mrs. O'Neil shrunk into the corner. "Roger..."   


"She's fine, Mom," Roger said, holding Annie closer and trying not to cringe.   


"If you say so." Mrs. O'Neil coppitulated.   


Roger nodded. "Yeah."   


Adam sidled towards his brother, trying to shake the feeling that his mom had let this happen. "Roger, are you coming home soon?"   


"I don't know, man. I hope so."   


"It's kind of boring at Grandpa Marty's house. All we do is watch Matlock reruns and play Go-Fish."   


"Hey, don't worry about it. If you get that bored, you can always steal his teeth or something," Roger teased.   


Adam smiled, and Annie giggled.   
  
"You silly, Rogie."   


Adam glanced at his little sister. "Look, um, I won't let anything happen to her, okay? I know that we're safe and everything, but I'll look out for her, you know?"   


"Thanks, Adam," Roger replied.   


He hoped that Adam was right.   



	10. X

_**Author's Note:**_ Wow. It's been almost four months since I've updated or even touched this story. I hope you're all still interested. I'm working on updating all of Rent-fics, in the chronology that they were updated, so _Seven Seas_ is up next. Don't hesistate to leave plenty of feedback, and I'll try not to wait so long between updates this time around. Again, this is another bit of a slow chapter, but the scene will change, and soon, the story will come to an end.   


* * *

  
"So, what you're saying is that you don't understand it?" Mark asked quietly, pushing his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.   
  
Roger nodded. "I don't."   
  
"What's not to understand?"  
  
"Well," Roger began, clearing his throat dramatically. "Why would anyone name their kid Atticus?"   
  
Mark groaned, letting his head collapse on the side of Roger's hospital bed. "Who cares?"   
  
"I care!" Roger declared, grinding his fist into the mattress.   
  
Mark shook his head, raising it from the mattress. "Roger, no one named their _kid_ Atticus. Harper Lee named his _character_ Atticus."   
  
Roger grinned thoughtfully. "Why?"   
  
"Augh!"   
  
Roger shrugged. "Besides, isn't an atticus one of those things that people used to count with?"  
  
"Roger, that's an _abacus_."   
  
"Oh," Roger replied sheepishly. He sighed, watching as Mark scribbled on a piece of notebook paper.  
  
Roger had been in the hospital for almost two weeks, and although he was nearly healed, he didn't want to face the world outside of the pallid building. His mother, during a typical lapse in judgement, had decided that she couldn't stand being without Adam and Annie, and had taken them back. Roger, however, wouldn't be permitted in the house under any circumstances. _I don't want it to be awkward for you_, she had said. _Matthew's changed already, but still. It might be awfully tense for you.  
  
_Tense. It would hardly be tense. Fatal would be a more accurate description, but at least it would keep Annie and Adam safe. Adam had never fallen victim to Matthew, but Roger knew that would be coming to an end. His little brother had promised to look out for Annie; a death wish in its own right. Adam was too small; he had always been scrawny, and it wouldn't take much abuse from Matthew before he was out of the running. Then, the bastard would move onto Annie, and there would be no one to protect her. Far be it from Mrs. O'Neil to remove her head from her ass and notice the malaise going on around her. Matthew hadn't changed, and God only knew what it would take for that to dawn on Roger's mother.  
  
"Roger?"   
  
Roger blinked, breaking his stare. "Huh?"  
  
"Muriel's here," Mark said with a small grin. He had developed a bond with the husky black nurse over the past few weeks. She had noticed the boy trying to sneak into the ward before visiting hours, and had taken him under her wing, escorting him to Roger's room every day, and giving him left-over Jell-O to snack on while he and Roger visited. She also happened to be an authority on "To Kill a Mockingbird."  
  
"Salutations, honey," Muriel greeted Roger with a smile. She grabbed the chart from the edge of his bed. "How're you feeling today?"  
  
"Like crap," Roger replied, despondent. "Muriel, why would anyone name their kid Atticus?"   
  
Muriel sighed, cocking her head at Mark. "Kid, have you ever considered showing up without Harper Lee in tow?"   
  
Mark shrugged. "I don't know."  
  
"Oh, well. Mr. Davis, I can't say as I know why Atticus Finch is so called, but I do know that you're lying. You feel fine."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Roger challenged.   
  
"Yeah," Muriel replied. She shook her head. "Why don't you want to go home, kid?"   
  
Roger sighed. "I'm not going home."   
  
"You are. Tomorrow."   
  
"Tomorrow?" Roger asked quietly.   
  
"Hon, you're almost recovered. Sure, you're going to be on crutches for a while, those gorgeous eyes of yours might be puffy for a bit, and you won't be doing things like you're used to for quite a while, but there's no reason for us to keep you here anymore, Mr. Davis."  
  
Roger bit his lip.  
  
"Roger," Muriel said softly. Roger looked up. She had never called him that before. "Why don't you want to go home?"   
  
Mark nodded, looking to Roger expectantly.   
  
Roger took a deep breath, and shook his head. "I couldn't tell you-"  
  
"You could."   
  
Mark nodded again.   
  
"My step-father..." Roger began shakily. Muriel laid a gentle hand on his knee, giving it a slight squeeze. "My step-father... he, uh, well... he does- things."   
  
Muriel nodded. "What sort of things, Roger? Honey... he didn't do this to you, did he?"   
  
Roger shrugged miserably. "I can't tell you."   
  
Muriel only sighed, patting him on the knee. She smiled sadly at Mark before she left the room.   
  
"Honey," she whispered. "Make him talk."   
  
  



	11. XI

**_Author's Note:_** Sorry that it's been so long, kids. Well, actually, it's only been three months, and I have stories that I've left for a far longer period of time than that. Of course, that's not the point. Well, I'm back for now, and school will be ending in a few weeks. I can't believe that it's been almost a year since I started this epic. ((Sigh)). Thanks to Julie (trip hazard) for all her help. Enjoy!

* * *

"Roger," Mark began. His voice had already begun to tremble; this wasn't something that he wanted to know. This was something that he_ needed_ to know_. _However, this was something that Roger might not be able to talk about. 

The other boy bowed his head, letting his chin slip into the hollow of his throat. He didn't look scared, but Mark knew that he was. His eyes were darting in every direction, not unlike they had the day after they'd met. Hesitantly, Mark extended his hand towards Roger's shoulder. 

"Roger..." 

Roger flinched as Mark touched him. 

"Roger, please. Look, I know that you don't really want to talk about it, but you h-" 

"My dad died when I was twelve." Roger's voice was calm. "Annie was a baby, you know? And Adam wasn't that old either. He had cancer, my dad. None of us really understood. Mom just said that he had gone on a trip when he was in the hospital. I didn't even get to say goodbye." 

He paused, letting his eyes settle on Mark's. "So, you know, I had to be the man of the house. I wasn't ready for it, I guess. Adam was sort of lost for a while, and Mom... I don't know what happened to her. She started working at the diner, and we never saw her. I just sort of took care of Annie and Adam; stopped going to school for a while. And then, she met _him_.

"He hated me right from the start. I mean, I wasn't exactly nice to him. He was sort of- well, no. He _was_ replacing my dad. That's the only reason she married him. She wanted us to have a father. I guess the money was part of it too. We were living in the city at the time, and it's really hard to keep everything up there. That's why we moved here, I think. He lost, like, his fifth job since they got married because he showed up smashed. Mom was pregnant, so she wasn't working.

"That's when everything started to happen, I guess. He was pissed about losing his job, so he took it out on her. He started smacking her around a little bit; I didn't notice, I guess. I was so busy hating him- I- I..." 

Roger trailed off again, shifting his gaze back to his hands. "He was too rough one night, and she lost the baby. She was at the clinic... Adam was at a friend's house, I was trying to do homework, I guess. I heard Annie crying- and... God, it was so- no, I don't... she was so scared, Mark. He was... touching her. I mean, she was two! Two-years-old and some bastard was..."

Mark bit his lip.

"I went to stop him. I just barged in there in the middle of it, and he was standing in front of my baby sister. She was screaming- I pushed him away from her. I just shoved him as hard as I could. It didn't do much.

"He broke my arm that night. He flew off the handle and started smacking me, and then he just kept twisting it, and twisting it. It wasn't like this time. This time I went in to stop him- I've spent the last two years doing that- and he was going to kill me. I swear to God, he would've. I don't know what made him stop." 

His voice died, having steadily descended to a whisper through his story. He turned away from Mark, not wanting the other boy to see the angry tears that had collected in his eyes. 

"I'm so-"

"Don't be sorry, Mark," Roger said pointedly. "It isn't going to change anything."

"But-"

"When Mom got back from the clinic, I was gone. I was in the hospital- but no one came to visit me. I was so scared. I didn't know what that son of a bitch was doing to her- there's nothing I could have done to stop it. Not from there. I don't even know if my mom knew what had happened. He came to get me, told me that he had told her that I had landed the wrong way when I was playing basketball or something. He said not to even bother with- he said he'd kill me. In a way, I guess he did. I didn't talk for months. I couldn't look at them, look either of them in the face. But I kept protecting Annie. If I knew something was going to happen, I'd take her into my room. Let her sleep with me for the night.

"When we moved here, I thought it was going to be different. Mom got a new job, and Matthew took a swing shift at the plastic factory. He wasn't supposed to be home nights and I thought that it would be okay.

"It hasn't been, so far. He's broken that arm again, and gone after the other one; my jaw... Annie doesn't know. She doesn't understand, Mark. She really doesn't. I mean, she came in here and tried to 'kiss it and make it better.' She knows that what Matthew's doing is bad, and that if she calls, I'll stop him. I always get her back to her room before he goes off. I don't want her to see me- to see him... I just want her to think that I'm brave and that I'll always be there to save her. I don't want her to blame herself for anything. None of it's her fault. None of it."

Mark sucked in a nervous breath. "What about your mom? How can she not-" 

"She's blind. Or scared. I mean, he doesn't go after her too much anymore. She's in love with the idea of being in love, and she hates herself. She doesn't think that she can find anyone better- and even if she could, if she told anyone about what Matthew does, she's scared he'll do worse. Like revenge or something. She doesn't blame herself or anything; she just can't see what's really going on." 

"But what does she tell people? I mean... you look better than you did, but they'll know when you get to school. They'll know it wasn't an accident or some sort of... I don't know," Mark broke off, scared that he might be going too far.

"I won't go to school again until I start to look normal. That's what I've always done," Roger answered matter-of-factly. "Look, Mark, you don't have to feel like you're asking too much. I've never talked about this with anyone, and it sort of feels good to let it all out. But, I guess, I don't want to burden you with all this crap either."

"No, just... talk all you want," Mark replied cautiously. "I'll listen." 

"I don't know how much else there is to say. I mean, I could be a lot worse off. I could be dead, and then there'd be no one there to protect her- them. Oh... oh my God. Adam's there. Alone. What if Matthew's tried something? No, this can't happen. He's too little; he couldn't do anything. Matthew'd kill him. Mark, I can't stay at my grandpa's house. There's too much that can go wrong." 

"You have to. You said that your mom doesn't want you at the house." 

"But-" Roger began. He stopped, letting his head fall. "This is really bad."

Their conversation was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Muriel walked in, a Tupperware container with Jell-O in tow. 

"I'm sorry, boys. Visiting hours are up for the day, and the doctor is making rounds with some of the med students. Y'all better wrap it up, or Mark won't have any Jell-O to take home in the future." 

Mark was about to protest, but Roger pasted on a plastic smile. "Sure, Muriel. Look, uh, Mark... I left some stuff at my house. My... baseball cards! Yeah. Could you bring them for me tomorrow?" 

Mark grimaced. Roger was asking him to check up on things at home. He paused, wanting to refuse, but after everything Roger had just told him...

"Sure, Roger." 


	12. XII

**_Author's Note:_** Wow. So, it's been almost a year since I've updated this story. I wonder if I have any loyal readers left. Hopefully, I do, and, well-- this chapter is for you. With summer on the rise, maybe I'll be able to finish this epic and soon. For right now, I'm back, and I hope that you enjoy! 

* * *

Mark stared at his feet. He hadn't gone home after his hospital visit-- he still had the container of leftover lime Jell-O in his hands. It was beginning to melt. A puddle of green slime. Jell-O didn't jiggle once it had melted. 

It wasn't far to Roger's house, maybe a twenty minute walk, but already Mark's insides were twisted inside out. He didn't want to go in. He didn't want to have to tell Roger what was going on inside that house. 

"Okay," Mark sighed, eyeing the front door carefully. "Okay. I can do this." 

He haphazardly stuffed the Tupperware into his knapsack, and started up the front walk. The sun was too bright, and Mark felt himself begin to sweat beneath the ribbed collar of his sweater. He raised his hand to knock, and bit his lip. It was quiet. He didn't hear any of the strange sounds behind the door that he had his first time at the O'Neil house. He had been more scared of Roger than anything or anyone inside. Now, he knew, he had so much more to be afraid of. 

Mark managed to gulp down the lump of apprehension that had lodged itself in his throat, and rapped meekly on the door. 

He stood, waiting. 

"Maybe no one's home," he muttered to himself. His thoughts were interrupted by the muffled sound of feet. 

The door opened. 

Mark breathed a sigh of relief. Mrs. O'Neil stood before him, wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt, looking no less tired than she had the first time they'd met, but much healthier. Her bruises had disappeared, he noted with hope. She cocked her head him. 

"Can I help you?" 

"Uh, hi, Mrs. O'Neil," Mark said, waving feebly. 

"Hi," she replied uncertainly. 

"I'm a friend of Roger's. Mark." 

"Oh, sure," Mrs. O'Neil said. She obviously didn't recognize him. "Well, Roger isn't home right now. I'll let him know you stop-" 

"Um, actually, ma'am, I was kind of hoping that I could come in. Roger wanted me to get some of his stuff for him." 

"Oh. So, you know that he- he had an accident, then?" Mrs. O'Neil asked, staring over Mark's head. 

"Yeah," Mark replied. He felt annoyed. How could Roger's own mother pretend like this? His chest began to tighten. He didn't feel afraid anymore. He was mad. 

"Well, then, Mark, I suppose you can come in," she replied with a quick smile. 

He nodded politely, wiping his feet. "Thanks." 

Mrs. O'Neil moved aside, letting him into the house. Mark made sure to take a careful look at his surroundings. The house was silent. Toys were strewn everywhere, and, glancing past Roger's mother and into the kitchen, a week's worth of dirty dishes sat undone. He could make out a pile of empty beer bottles next to the sink, but Mrs. O'Neil quickly shifted in front of him. 

"I guess you know where his room is?" 

Mark nodded. 

"Well, have at it then. I'll be down here if you need anything," Mrs. O'Neil said. She didn't sound very convincing. Mark smiled and started up the stairs, watching the woman move toward the living room. He stopped on the landing, peeking discreetly around the wall. She was already curled up on the couch, her arms wrapped tightly around a throw pillow. She was shaking. Mark looked away and continued up the stairs. He didn't understand. 

He remembered where Roger's room was, but didn't go in. He knew he'd have to find something to take to the hospital the next day to convince Muriel he'd been there, but that wasn't his first priority. He could see the purple paint on the walls, the bunny rabbit door hanger on the white paneling. Annie's room. 

His steps were measured as he headed toward the toddler's bedroom, waiting for Matthew to appear or for Mrs. O'Neil to holler from downstairs. Neither happened. 

Annie's room reminded him of what Cindy's had been when they were little. The walls had been sponge-painted a soft shade of lavender, and were decorated with various posters and coloring book pages; Mother Goose stories, Disney princesses, teddy bears. Her bed was small, and white whicker, piled high with stuffed animals. Mark smiled. He thought of Annie, her white blonde pigtails flying out behind her as she rushed for her big brother. She was cute, and she needed Roger-- he wished that he had had someone who cared for him half as much as she and "Rogie" cared about each other. Then, he noticed the little, white table in the corner. It was overturned, and the cracked remnants of a petit, porcelain tea set lay underneath the splintered legs. 

Mark bit nervously at his lip. He picked up a stray shard of glass, imagining how the porcelain could have been cracked. Closing his eyes, he saw Annie, cowering beneath her bed, and Adam trying his best to distract Matthew. He shook his head. He couldn't let Roger's doubts get the best of him. Still, it didn't look good. 

"C'mon, Annie, what happened?" he muttered to the broken tea set. His eyes scanned the room for any other signs of unrest, but there were none. Mark stuffed the piece he was holding-- what was left of a miniature saucer-- into his pants pocket, and stood up. He had to get out of there, and quick. 

He ducked across the hall to Roger's room. As he pried open the door, he saw his answer. Adam and Annie lay together on the bottom bunk, tucked tightly beneath the covers. Adam's arms were wrapped protectively around his little sister, who was sleeping fitfully. Adam wasn't asleep. He was crying, softly. He jumped as Mark came into the room, swiping carefully at his cheek, not wanting to wake Annie. 

"Hi," Mark said stupidly. He didn't know what else to say.

Adam stared at him. 

"I'm- I'm Mark. Roger's friend-" 

"From school," Adam finished, whispering. Mark could see the kid's hackles rising. He untangled his arms from around his little sister, and sat up. 

"Yeah." 

"Did- did he send you to check up on us?" 

Mark shrugged uncomfortably.

"He did," Adam said, more to himself than to Mark. 

"Yeah." 

Adam stood up, and Mark gave him a quick once over. He looked fine; no black eyes, and no bruises that anyone could see. He didn't seem afraid. 

"Is- is she all right?" Mark asked, gesturing to Annie. "I mean, has anything-" 

"Only once. And I stopped him," Adam replied proudly. "Tell Roger that I'm looking out for her. She'll be all right." 

"The tea set?" Mark began. 

Adam cringed. "Tried to find something to cut me with. Mom came home just in time."

"Is that why-" 

"Yeah. He's at work now, but she doesn't want to leave us alone. Not after last night." 

Mark nodded. "You're sure you guys are all right?" 

The younger boy shrugged. "For now. Just- just tell Roger to get home as soon as he can." Adam looked to his little sister, thrashing around under the covers. "I'm not quite as strong as he is, you know? And he'd kill me if anything happened to her."

"I'll try."

"Thanks, uh-" 

"Mark."

"Thanks, Mark," Adam said. "But you'd better go. He'll be home soon."

"Look, does Roger have a baseball card album or anything?" Mark asked quickly. He knew that he needed to leave.

Adam nodded, and grabbed a red binder from the desktop, shoving it into Mark's arms. 

"Tell him that we miss him, 'kay?" Adam asked. 

"I will." 


	13. XIII

**Author's Note:** Whoa, long time, no see? Well, here I am, back and ready to write. I'm slowly winding this epic down; in this chapter, you can see a few connections between little Roger and musical-era Roger and you can sense that the story is coming to its climax. I hope to have another chapter up within the week-- then a short hiatus for my Europe and New York trips, but I'll try my damndest to finally finish this thing. Please, if you still care, leave me some reviews with your thoughts and ideas. So much thanks and love!

* * *

"So, today's the day, huh?" 

Mark winced. Muriel, wearing her usual expression of repressed amusement, walked toward him. He could tell that she was going to pump him for information, and he knew that he'd give it to her. No one could evade Muriel for long.

"Yeah," Mark replied weakly. "Today's the day."

"What've you got there?"

Mark grunted. "Baseball cards."

"Baseball cards? Honey, I think Mr. Davis is gonna need a little bit more than baseball cards to get him through the next few months."

"Yeah," Mark admitted. He looked around, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Where is he?"

Muriel smiled. "He's still in his room. I think he may be suffering some separation anxiety."

They both laughed nervously, and Muriel laid a friendly hand on the boy's shoulder as they headed toward Roger's room. Mark took a deep breath as he entered, moving his thumb over the album's rough edge. Roger sat on his hospital bed, swinging his legs back and forth, back and forth. He was wearing the clothes his mother had absentmindedly left for him on her last visit; a pair of ratty jeans and a white undershirt. A red baseball cap was positioned tactfully on his head, the bill covering what was left of his facial injuries. Mark shivered. Roger's gaunt appearance reminded him of the junkies he'd seen once on a trip to the city. He was so pale and thin that there hardly seemed to be a boy underneath the clothes. Muriel squeezed Mark's shoulder, and Roger looked up from his knees.

"Hi."

"Hi," Mark whispered. He cleared his throat. "Hi."

"Well, Mr. Davis, do you think that you're ready to go?" Muriel asked cheerily.

Roger shrugged. "I don't really have too much of a choice, do I?"

"No, you don't," Muriel admitted.

"I don't," Roger repeated. His eyes darted toward Mark. "Did you- did you bring my baseball cards?"

Mark held up the binder, and Roger nodded.

"Then you have everything?" Muriel pressed.

"Yeah, I guess," he replied stoically. Muriel eyed him suspiciously, and he immediately perked up. "Yep! Definitely!"

The heavyset nurse smiled. She wasn't fooled. "Well, then let's get you boys out of here."

Roger climbed off of the bed, steadying himself on his crutches. Mark started to follow Muriel, but Roger caught his elbow before he could get too far ahead. Muriel kept walking; Mark knew that she would keep walking and give them their privacy. She was concerned about Roger, but she knew that she couldn't do anything by pushing him too far. He sighed and turned toward Roger. His stomach felt as if it had dropped through his feet.

Looking around the room, Roger took his baseball cards and started leafing through them, doing his best to look nonchalant. "Is everything-- are they okay? I mean, is Adam doing all right?"

Mark nodded. "They miss you. They want you to come home."

Roger sighed uncomfortably. "Annie? Matthew hasn't tried--"

"Once," Mark interrupted quickly. He started at the white toes of Roger's sneakers. "Adam said he tried something once, but that he stopped him."

"Oh God."

"He wasn't hurt, Roger," Mark amended. "Neither was Annie."

"That's not the point," Roger hissed. He was frustrated. "Sure, they were okay when you saw them, but who's to say that nothing else has happened?"

Mark shrugged. "I don't know, Roger."

"Adam's so little. You probably couldn't see what that chicken shit did to him. He knows how to hide it; he learned from the best."

Mark flinched. Adam had learned from the best. Everything about Roger screamed that he had been hurt, but there was absolutely no way to know where or how. He took great pains to hide his scars, inside and out. A baseball cap to hide his face, tucking in his tee-shirt so it wouldn't reveal any of his bruises. His expression never changed. Always even keel. Instead, he turned it all inward. Mark could relate. He knew what it was like to face a thankless world alone. "Look. I couldn't--"

Roger rolled his eyes impatiently. "You couldn't what?"

"Your mom is home with them. Matthew broke Annie's tea set, and I guess he tried to use one of the pieces to-"

Roger winced. "Cut."

Mark studied his friend carefully. "Yeah."

"He did that to me once," Roger said distantly. He fingered his forearm self-consciously, and for the first time, Mark noticed a shiny white scar running from Roger's elbow to his wrist. He bit his lip.

"I gotta go home," the other boy replied.

"Roger! You can't!" Mark exclaimed. His head snapped up and he suddenly felt alert. "You can't go home. He'll kill you."

"So what if he does? At least if he kills me they'll have something to put him away for. It's better than someone coming in and splitting us up, taking us away from Mom."

"You don't care about yourself at all, do you?"

"Not really. I'm not that important, Mark. I'm one person, and I figure I have one job. What I do to get it done is my business, and what I do afterward doesn't really matter."

Mark sighed. For the first time in his life, he felt exasperated. He needed to take care of Roger. There was no other option. "But don't you want anything?"

"I want my brother and sister to be safe."

"For yourself, Roger."

Roger was quiet for a moment. He closed his baseball card album, and looked at Mark before turning away to shove the binder into his duffle bag. "I don't want to feel it anymore. When he hurts me, I don't want to feel it."

**xxx**

As they sauntered out of the hospital room, neither boy could look at the other. Muriel watched them carefully from the nurses' station. They walked so close to one another, but they didn't say anything. Roger was gripping the braces on his crutches with all his might, gazing at the oft-offensive air that was blocking his path. Mark, for once in his life, didn't look at the floor. He was staring straight ahead, clutching Roger's duffle to his chest, but it wasn't really clear what he was looking at.

"I guess this is it, boys," Muriel said evenly, approaching them the way an experienced hunter approaches sensitive prey. Both heads snapped toward her, two pairs of eyes wide as saucers. "Well, don't look so shocked. We all knew that this moment would come eventually."

Mark pushed his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose. "Bye, Muriel."

"G'bye, Mark, m'dear," Muriel replied. She wrapped her arm around the smaller boy and gave him a pointed look. "You'll have to come back and talk to me soon. And I mean soon."

Mark shrank, but gave her a weak smile.

"Look, I'm gonna go get you some Jell-O for the road. Mr. Davis, why don't you come with me real quick? I'm gonna need some time to give you an appropriate sendoff."

Roger groaned, but followed the heavyset nurse down the hall. He looked over his shoulder at Mark, who had thrown himself into a chair and was shaking his head.

"So you're ready then?"

"Yeah, Muriel, I'm ready. How many times do you need to ask?"

Muriel sped around a corner. She wanted to smack the young man next to her, but she could guess that he'd had enough of that in his young life. "Mr. Davis, I think that there might be something you need to tell me."

"Nope. Why would there be?"

"Roger, have you ever heard of social services?" Muriel asked quietly. She pushed through the white, swinging doors to the hospital cafeteria. Roger stopped walking. She turned back.

"What did you say?"

"Social services, honey," Muriel repeated. Her tone was cautious; she couldn't see Roger's face from under his baseball cap, but she sure he must be glaring at her. "I think that they could hel-"

"Why would I need social services?"

"I'm not stupid, Mr. Davis. You need to be on the level with somebody, because you're certainly not on the level with your mother or even with Mark, who seems to care an awful lot about you. You told me that your step-father 'does things' to you, and it's pretty obvious what those 'things' are. Now, either you're gonna tell me what you've been dealing with and we'll make the call together, or I'll do it myself. Either way, it's going to stop. You should _not_ be scared to go home."

Roger glared at her. "I'm not scared to go home. And I don't want to call social services."

"But Roger-"

"No. They're not going to take her away."

"Her? Roger, who-"

Muriel tried to reach out for the boy, but he slid backward. "It doesn't matter. If you call them, I'll just tell them that you don't know what you're talking about. 'Cause you don't. You don't get it, Muriel."

"I know every scar on your body, Mr. Davis."

"Leave me alone!"

"Look, kid, I don't know what it is that's eating you, but whatever it is, you can't keep it inside like you've been doing. First of all, it isn't good for you. Second of all, it's really beginning to get under my skin. Mr. Davis, I like you. You're a great young man, but you're gonna wind up being an angry young man with a chip on his shoulder and fear in his heart if you don't stop trying to take this on all by yourself."

"Nobody else will," Roger muttered. "I'm leaving, okay? Mark can just live without his Jell-O."

Roger clomped down the hall as fast as his crutches would carry him. Muriel knew that it wouldn't be the last time in his life that he would run away from the truth. She shook her head, and made her way to the nearest phone.

"Karen? It's Muriel. I have a situation."


	14. XIV

**Author's Note:** Ha! Betcha didn't think I would actually update so soon, did you? Well, I did! I actually updated without waiting three-hundred-sixty-five days in between. Hoorah! Oh, and by the way, the nice moment between the boys in this chapter isn't meant to be slashy, but if you want to interpret it as such, I suppose I can't stop you. Whatever floats your boat. All the action is coming to a head!

* * *

"You have a friend?"

Mark grimaced as he locked the front door behind him. During the bus ride from the hospital, as he half-watched Roger mumble angrily to himself, he had spent most of his energy on wishing that no one would be at his house. Of course, Cindy opened the door. And of course, she did it with the same courtesy of a female praying mantis just before it eats its mate.

"Yeah," Mark replied defensively.

Cindy rolled her eyes. "He looks like he's about twelve, Mark. What, couldn't you get any of the other freshman boys to hang out with you?"

Mark watched Roger, waiting for some sort of reaction, but the other boy was still lost in his own world. Cindy had a point; even as tall as he was, with all the weight he had lost and in his current state of duress, Roger did look a lot younger.

"He's a freshman."

"What's the matter with him?" Cindy was never discreet about anything.

Mark shrugged evasively. "He's sick, that's all."

"Well, don't let him bring it in here."

"Shut up, Cindy."

"Shut up, Marky," Cindy mimicked.

"Don't call me that," Mark growled.

"I can call you whatever I want."

"No, you may not, Cynthia."

Both Cohen children groaned as their mother's singsong voice penetrated their perfectly good fight. Mrs. Cohen emerged from the kitchen, vigorously wiping her hands on her hideous 'Kiss the Chef: It's Good For Your Belly' apron. She practically sashayed across the living room and into the entryway. She made no bones about staring long and hard at her houseguest, who still had yet to really acknowledge his surroundings.

"Mark, you have a friend!"

Mark wanted to smack his head against the wall. "Would everyone please stop saying that?"

"Oh, pish-tosh. Introduce me, honey."

"Um. Roger?"

Roger looked up from his hands. They had been his main focus for nearly an hour.

"Roger, this is my mom."

"So very nice to make your acquaintance, Roger," Mrs. Cohen replied. Her voice was too cheery, and Roger could only stare at her outstretched hand. The woman had hot pink nails. Roger was fairly certain that no one over forty was supposed to have hot pink nails. It was somewhat like wearing white pants after labor day. If his mind hadn't been a million miles away, Roger might have laughed. Instead, he forgot himself, and reflexively took off his baseball cap.

"Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cohen," Roger mumbled, shaking her perky pink paw. Mrs. Cohen, however, was no longer interested in his hand shake.

She saw his bruises. They were old news and had gone from purple to an unsettling yellow-blue. She could see the swollen cut above his eyebrow. She could see his red eyes, made so by too many sleepless nights and some secret bouts of tears. Roger still looked awful, and there was no way he could hide it now.

"My God, sweetie! You like something the devil digested!" Mrs. Cohen exclaimed. Her hand inched toward Roger's face. "What happened to you?"

"Oh, no," Roger started. He shoved his baseball cap on. "No. No. No. No!"

Mrs. Cohen looked at Mark. "Mark?"

Wrapping his finger's around Roger's shaking elbow, Mark decided on the diplomatic course of action. Lying. "He's just embarrassed. Got into a fight at school."

"Well, that was dumb. Whoever took him probably could have busted him in half. He's like a stick."

"Cynthia!" Mrs. Cohen reprimanded. "Roger is a guest in our house."

Cindy huffed. "I was just telling the truth."

"I don't care. That's no way to behave with company. Roger, dear, would you like an ice pack? Maybe some Tang?"

Roger stopped wringing his hands. "Tang?"

**xxx**

Dinner was uneventful. Mr. Cohen had seemed relieved that Mark was spending his time with a boy that was actually willing to get into fights, and he had only remarked on his son's seemingly nonexistent testosterone and mundane personality two or three times instead of the usual baker's dozen. Mrs. Cohen was glad for the extra mouth to feed, and had tried to make obnoxious small talk with the boy all evening. Cindy, of course, had stared at Roger's bruises; Mrs. Cohen had informed him that it was not polite to wear a baseball cap to the table. Mark spent most of the meal trying not to throw up. Roger was silent.

"Your mom is something else, man," Roger replied, slipping off his undershirt. When Mark had explained that Roger's parents were on their second honeymoon in the Caribbean, Mrs. Cohen had graciously agreed to put him up in Mark's room for the remainder of their trip.

"Yeah," Mark replied. "That's an understatement."

"She's cool, though. Really nice, y'know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"Sorry about your dad, though."

Mark shrugged. "Yeah, he doesn't seem to like me much."

"I know how that goes," Roger replied. Mark could see his attention fading into the distance.

"Roger," Mark pressed cautiously. "Roger, what did Muriel say to you today?"

Roger's head snapped toward his friend. "What do you mean?"

"You were really pissed when we left. I figured it was something she said."

Roger propped himself up on his crutches, preparing for the great toothbrush hunt. "I don't think you'd understand, Mark."

"C'mon."

"No."

Mark wasn't going to back down. "Roger."

"No!"

"Roger, look, you're here. I didn't even try to get you to go home. You're in my house, you're sleeping in my room, and I'm not gonna ask any more questions. You might as well answer this one."

Roger glared at Mark. "You know, I liked it a lot better when you didn't talk all the time."

"Dude."

"No, Mark!"

"Roger."

"No!"

"C'mon. It helped the last time you-"

"Fine!" Roger replied, exasperated. "Fine! She said that she was going to call social services."

"Is that it?"

"What do you mean, 'is that it?' That's a big deal, Mark. A really big deal."

Mark was puzzled. Roger started to pace the room as best he could on crutches.

"I don't get it."

Roger stomped the rubber feet of his crutches angrily on the carpet. "Damnit! She just can't do that. She can't, Mark."

"Actually, I think she can," Mark replied.

"No. She can't. If she calls social services, they'll take Annie away. They'll take us _all_ away from Mom, and then they'll separate us."

"You don't know that, Roger."

Roger shook his head. "I do, Mark."

"You don't."

"I do."

"You don't."

"I do," Roger said. He maneuvered a pace closer to Mark, and even on crutches, he would have the upper hand in a fight.

"Fine, you do," Mark replied, backing away from his angry friend. "You do."

Roger nodded. "If I'm not with them, how am I gonna know if they're okay?"

"Maybe you won't," Mark tried. His voice was cautious. "But what if it's better for them?"

"How can it be better for them, Mark? Would you wanna be raised by strangers? People you don't belong to, so it really doesn't matter to them what you do or what happens to you?"

"Sometimes it's like that with the people that you _do_ belong to," Mark replied bitterly. "Sometimes what you get isn't what you deserve, and God has a way of intervening."

Roger laughed. "Don't spout that 'God' stuff at me, Mark. I don't really think that He's a real good guy. Shouldn't He just give us what we deserve? I mean, what was my dad? What's Annie? Is that God, the Great and Powerful, intervening so that I can have what I want? 'Cause lemme tell you, all of my prayers were answered that first time Matthew hit me. Hallelujah, I've seen the light!"

Mark watched Roger with interest. He could see the anger building in his friend's body; the boy's arms were tense and curled around the tops of his crutches, and his fingers were wrapped so tight around the grips that his knuckles had turned white. His breathing was heavy, and Mark was worried that he might actually hyperventilate. Instead, Roger threw his crutches. He threw them across the room, narrowly missing Mark's head, and collapsed on the floor.

"It's not fair!"

It was then that Mark realized.

Roger was stuck. The night that his father died, Roger had defied progress. He stopped growing. Sure, he was the man of the house, but there was no one there to show him the ropes. He was going to have to be father and brother to Annie and Adam; he was going to have to take care of his mother. But Roger wasn't a man. Not really. Roger was still a twelve-year-old boy, trying not to cry while his mother tried to explain to him where his dad had gone. No matter how long Roger lived, he would always be a little boy searching for his father.

"Roger?" Mark whispered. The other boy had curled himself into a ball, and Mark could see that his shoulders were shaking uncontrollably. "Roger?"

"My dad would- he never would've hurt me," Roger whispered.

"I know."

"When he died, I thought that everything would be okay. I would take care of everything."

"You do."

"I don't. I can't," Roger finally looked up. He was crying, He was in the midst of a bona fide jag. Mark wasn't sure what to do. "I'm scared of Matthew, Mark. I'm _scared_ of him. Sometimes, in the hospital, I had nightmares about him. And I could feel everything. I'd wake up screaming, and Muriel would be there, just staring at me. Like I was crazy or something."

"You're not," Mark tried weakly.

Roger shook his head and choked down a sob. "I am. Mark, I can't remember what my dad looked like. I try to remember him, and all I can see is Matthew. And I hate him. I hate my dad because he let him in. I hate my mom for ignoring it. And I'm scared that I'm going to start hating Adam. And hating Annie. But it won't stop. I keep trying to make it go away, but it won't. It won't.

"It's like a monster, or something. I hate it. I hate it. And I hate me for not being a man. For not being strong enough to take it."

Mark stared hard at Roger. His words had dissolved into a sob that he hadn't made any effort to hide, and Mark knew that Roger had said what he had to say. Slowly, Mark scooted a little closer, and wrapped his arms around his friend. He remembered the hugs his mother had given him when he was a little boy, when his father had smacked him across the face and broken his glasses, or after the countless occasions where he'd assured Mark that somewhere out there was the son he had really wanted, and how her arms had made him feel important and real. And so he hugged Roger, and Roger cried into his Chewbacca tee-shirt, and for a moment, they both felt relevant. Someone cared about them. And it occurred to Mark that it _was_ nice to have a friend.

**xxx**

"Mark?"

Mark groaned and rolled over. In lieu of having his exhausted roommate the bed, he had fallen asleep on top of a pile of Lego-s. It was not the most comfortable of accommodations, and his mother's cheery voice did nothing to improve the crick in his neck.

"Mark?" Mrs. Cohen persisted.

Mark grunted. "What?"

"A Karen Howard just called. She's coming here to meet with Roger."

"What?"

"Apparently, she's from social services."

"Oh, God."

"Mark, watch your tone," Mrs. Cohen snapped. Her tone seldom exceeded the realm of lollypops and rainbows, but for once, she meant what she said. "Where are Roger's parents?"


	15. XV

**Author's Note:** Ooo, look-it! Another chapter; and we're getting so close to the end of this epic! I like this one a lot, and I hope that you will too. Please, read & review and help me keep this one alive for the next few chapters so that it may finally be given a proper ending.

* * *

Mark craned his neck. He could see the scuffed edge of Roger's fidgeting sneaker. His foot was tapping so quickly that Mark thought it might fly right off of his leg. He and Karen Howard had been camped out in the Cohen kitchen for the better part of two hours, and, so far, Roger hadn't cracked. Ms. Howard had tried her best to work around the road block of teenaged angst, but to no avail. Roger knew how to keep things to himself. He'd steeled himself against prying eyes too many times to give up now. 

"You couldn't think of a better lie?"

Mark glared at his sister. She was parked next to him on the couch, just as intent on watching their frail houseguest.

"Shut up."

Cindy rolled her eyes. "No, really, Mark. What exactly is 'second honeymoon in the Caribbean' code for?"

"None of your business."

"It never is."

"Nope," Mark replied distractedly. He arched his back against the sofa's wildflower upholstery. Ms. Howard was tapping her pen on the kitchen table; Roger was staring hard at the pointed toes of her brown pumps.

Cindy sighed dramatically. Mark jabbed her with his elbow.

"Hey!"

"Look, I told you that it's none of your business."

"It is my business. You're my little brother, Mark."

"Not seeing the connection."

"If your friend is-"

Mark shifted uncomfortably. "Okay, the fact that we both, at separate times, occupied the same womb, doesn't exactly entitle you to know everything that goes on in my life."

"You know, this kid has done something weird to you," Cindy observed. She raised her eyebrows, hoping that she looked sage. "A few months ago, you never would've said something like that to me."

"Yeah, well, a few months ago you weren't this obnoxious. Would you please shut up?"

"Not until you tell me what's going on."

"No."

"Mark."

"No."

"Please."

"Cindy."

"Please. Please. Please."

"No," Mark persevered, but his concentration was momentarily broken. Roger's foot wasn't tapping, and Ms. Howard didn't look quite as peeved. She nodded at Roger and got up to slide the kitchen door shut.

"Hm. Guess that means he can talk."

"I wish you couldn't," Mark muttered to himself, burrowing down into the couch.

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't hear that."

"Fine."

Cindy smiled at her little brother. "You know, I almost like you. You're practically tolerable when you try to stand up for yourself. I mean, you fail miserably, but at least you're making an effort."

Glancing toward the kitchen, Mark shrugged. "You have to stand up for yourself. Nobody else will."

**xxx**

"I know that you don't really want to talk to me, Roger."

Roger shrugged. Ms. Howard seemed nice enough; her voice had the same reassuring, confident tone as the emcee of an infomercial, and she never broke eye contact with him. Aside from Mark and Muriel, it had been a long time since someone had wanted to listen to him. And here she was, a complete stranger, eager to hear everything about his "situation," as she'd called it. Her interest was almost enough to make him forget that she was probably going to separate his family for good.

"That's fine," she replied. "A lot of kids don't want to talk to me. But, Roger, it's important that you understand that you _need_ to talk to me. Now, Muriel is pretty good at her job. She's got a sixth sense about her patients, and I've always been able to rely on it. She seems to think that someone's been hurting you. Maybe your father."

"My father's dead."

Ms. Howard wasn't phased. "Oh. I'm sorry-- your step-father, then? You have a step-father, Roger?"

He nodded.

"What's his name?"

"Matthew."

"Matthew," she repeated. Roger bit his lip. "Does _Matthew_ hurt you?"

Roger stared at her.

"Roger."

"I'm sorry?"

"Roger, does your step-father hurt you? Does he hit you?"

"Ms. Howard-"

"Karen, please."

"Ms. Howard, I don't-"

Karen shook her head. "Roger, please, just tell the truth. I promise that there aren't any consequences-- not for you."

"There could be."

"Roger, I work for Child Protective Services for a reason. It's all in the title; I want to protect children. And you, my friend, clearly need some protec-"

"No, I don't. I can take care of myself."

Karen closed her eyes and massaged her temples. "You have siblings, don't you, Roger? Muriel mentioned a little girl and boy."

Roger grimaced. She was using his name in every sentence, as though she might forget it if she gave it a rest. Each time Matthew got to him, his mother would do the same thing. Just to reassure him that she knew he was there. It was her way of acknowledging his pain; she couldn't--wouldn't-- stop it, but she wanted him to know that she knew. "Stop saying my name."

"Roger, I just-"

"Please! Stop it!"

"All right. All right. You have a brother and a sister?"

"Yes."

Ms. Howard stared at him for a moment. "Do they live with your step-father?"

"My mom and step-fath-- with them, yeah."

"And what's it like at home?"

Roger's ears were beginning to get hot. He didn't want to tell her; he didn't want to tell her anything. He hadn't even really wanted to tell Mark, and he knew that he probably shouldn't have. He felt sick. He could feel every scar on his body begin to flare and throb with fresh and acute pain. Annie's cries were piercing his eardrums, and he had the sudden image of both Annie and Adam, naked and bleeding. They weren't moving and Matthew was standing over them, belt in hand. He was smiling, the bastard. He was smiling and looking at Roger. 'You're next,' his gleeful expression seemed to say. 'You thought you'd gotten away, but it just isn't that easy, little shit.' Roger couldn't breathe. He wanted to hold his brother and sister, to make every ugly red line on their bodies disappear.

But he was in Mark's kitchen. And he was too afraid.

"I can't."

"Roger--"

"Don't!"

"You-- you have to tell me. I can't help you unless you tell me."

Annie. She was so little.

"I-"

"Yes, yes. Please, just get it out."

Adam couldn't protect her. Adam couldn't protect himself. Oh, God. Adam.

"He tries to-"

God, Roger just wanted to be near them. Annie and Adam.

"Go ahead. You can tell me," Ms. Howard prompted, getting up to close the kitchen door.

Roger hesitated for a moment. His little sister's legs shaking. The raised welts on Adam's back from the fifth time he'd run to protect her. His mother, curled up on her bed or her shift manager's bed or in the bathroom with a bottle of Valium. She knew the right way to escape. Matthew. Matthew smiling and sipping his Jack. Matthew pushing him backward onto the stovetop after throwing dinner on the floor. Matthew spitting in his face the day that he came home from that first hospital stay. Matthew celebrating his wife's miscarriage; who wanted another one like one of his step-kids? Christ knows what she was thinking when she'd had them. _You're a little shit, Roger. Just like that runt. Just like your mama. Just like your old man._

"You have stand up for yourself. Nobody else will," he could hear Mark saying. And he knew that he was right.

"He does!"

"He does what?"

"He hurts me," Roger whispered. He tried to find his voice; it had dropped into the pit of his stomach. "He hurts us. All of us."

Ms. Howard nodded. "Thank you for telling me."

Roger took in a shaky breath. He didn't have any tears left; they'd all come out the night before. Now, there was fear. "What's next?"


End file.
